Why so Lonely the Mountain
by Maldon
Summary: Following Thorin's repentant death, he finds that the afterlife will call into question every claim to every right he has ever made. And while new challenges offer a redeeming opportunity, there is not one soul who dares hope for his success.
1. Chapter 1

**Why so Lonely the Mountain?**

_The rocks shuddered. And then came the groaning from deep underneath, the pulling sensation as everything constricted. Even the water grew louder. Everything stirred. "No! Already? So quickly? Curse every bloody goblin that ever drew weapon against that dwarf."_

Thorin felt himself sinking down into his deathbed. He released control over his lungs…and continued to sink. He sank down into the blood-soaked ground, past the blood and the roots and into the richer, darker earth, and through the bedrock into the mountain's stony depths.

At some point in the dark journey, he must have fallen asleep. When he woke, he was walking slowly down a large stone passageway and entering a great stone cavern. Trickles of water ran down the walls. The first thing of which he became aware was the warmth of the chamber when it should have been cold—all stone and water. His feet carried him forward as he noticed other things. He wore a plain white tunic and brown trousers and thick boots. He had no weapon. It was as if his sleepy head could only take in a very little at a time. But eventually he blinked and his vision became clearer.

There were steps at the far end, up to a raised dais. The stairs spanned the length of the room and off to one side was seated a person on the bottom step. When he noticed her, she stood up. What else was there to walk towards? He approached warily and stopped a few paces back. He blinked again and stared hard so that her face would come into focus. Her expression spoke one uncomplicated emotion: sadness.

She opened her arms and stepped forward faster than his foggy feet could step back. Her arms closed around his ribs and she hugged him tightly. She lifted her chin to rest it on his shoulder. He did not return her affection, but she whispered, "I am sorry for your losses," and backed away and he suddenly wished he had.

The woman removed herself two paces from him and allowed him to recover the breath caught in his chest. Her condolences stirred memories of his life, and death, and many, many losses.

"Please tell me your name and, briefly, your life," she said sadly.

He opened his mouth first, testing to see if it would work, and had to swallow before he trusted his voice. Still, it sounded a little groggy. "I am Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King Under the Mountain. My home was attacked by Smaug the Calamity and we were forced from the Lonely Mountain into homelessness. I worked and sought refuge for my kin, fought to reclaim Moria, saw my grandfather killed, lost my father, and journeyed back to the Lonely Mountain as its king." Her eyebrows lowered a bit at the end of his tale.

"Have you any sons?" she asked.

"No."

"No heir?" For the first time another tone challenged the sadness. Relief, perhaps?

"I have nephews. Fili and Kili." The relief fled. When she did not speak further, he ventured. "I am dead."

"Yes."

"After I died, I fell."

"Yes."

"Am I in Hell?"

"No. At least, I don't think so."

"Are you here to exact payment for my sins?"

"The sins of your past are no concern of mine."

"Are you the gatekeeper to heaven?"

"I am not."

"Who are you?"

"Who are you?"

"I am Thorin Oakenshield," he repeated. "King Under the Mountain." Silence, and the lowering eyebrows once more. The acceleration of the interview was starting to pump some adrenaline into the dwarf. He prepared to demand an answer, "And as King Under the Mountain, I will-"

"THERE IS NO KING!" the woman shouted, and then hissed, "Under this mountain." And in the same hiss she added, "Otherwise it would not be so lonely."

Thorin was not yet master of his wits and could not hide his shock at the outburst. The near scream of anguish set his teeth on edge. After that, the rest of the information trickled down into his understanding. "Where are we?" He asked, rather than risk a guess.

The woman carefully regained her composure. It looked as though this conversation were wearing her thin. "This is Lower Earth."

"And we are below the Lonely Mountain? That of Middle Earth?"

"Mountains and oceans are the only features of the higher worlds deep enough to reach Lower Earth."

Thorin's mouth learned how to smile, "I'm still here…under my mountain."

He saw her pain grow sharp again at this and the hissing came back, "I doubt for very long Dwarf."

"Why?"

Silence.

"Why am I here at all?"

She relaxed, softening into sadness once more. "Come up here," she invited him gloomily. He mounted the steps behind her. When he reached the platform his vision seemed to clear again. Set into the wall was a magnificent throne he was sure he'd not seen before. It was not hewn at all, but seemed to have grown naturally in the stone. He remembered his grandfather's throne with, regrettably, a little less awe now. The woman laid a hand on the armrest. "You are here, because the throne is empty, and the mountain will not rest until a king is found. You claimed to be that king in life, and now we shall see if a king you are."

After a long moment, Thorin spoke the one question that simply would not let him consider anything else. "Who _are_ you?"

The woman sighed and smiled a sad smile. She seated herself on the armrest and folded her hands in her lap. "I will tell you a riddle. The best way to begin is with your grandfather. Of all the dwarf kings, he came closest to understanding how he could really become King Under the Mountain. He began to search for me, secretly. He did not know what I was, but he kept a watchful eye on the discoveries of his miners. Finally he thought he'd found me, and prized the object above all else, making of it a great and everlasting symbol. And for that thing he thought I was he nearly gave his life. It was that same thing that thwarted your attempt to cheat men and elves."

"The Arkenstone." He lowered his eyes as the word crossed his lips. And what was the Arkenstone? He raised his eyes back to hers. "What is your name?"

"I am Halmulev."

The name was of no language Thorin had ever heard, but the meaning seeped up from the stone floor through his boots and into his blood, whispering all through his veins, chasing away the last of the unnatural drowsiness. His eyes grew wide in the attempt to comprehend.

"The Heart of the Mountain," he murmured in disbelief.

She raised her head a little at the sound of it. "Yes, Thorin. The Arkenstone could never have been the heart of this mountain. Only Dwarves have hearts of stone."


	2. Chapter 2: Echoes

_**Author's Note:**_Many thanks to the readers who are already following this story. That's a great vote of confidence. Just so you know, these first few chapters will be short and come quickly, but soon it will be more like a weekly update with meatier stuff. Obvious disclaimers apply: this world is not of my own invention. Reviews are most welcome and I thank you for your time and thoughts.

**Echoes**

Thorin felt in the pit of his stomach a familiar yearning. He took a step toward the great natural throne growing out of the cavern wall. But the mountain's heart, Halmulev, took her feet and he paused. She waited until he looked at her before she spoke.

"This throne belongs to the King Under the Mountain. It is sacred to me. I'm sorry Thorin; you must not touch it, sullied as you are."

Thorin frowned and mentally checked himself over. He was sure he'd never been cleaner in his life. "How sullied?" he asked darkly.

"Dragon sickness." He heard her choke on the words. "You still reek of it."

And he remembers. His mind's eye grips him and forces him to relive that last battle inside the mountain. A battle he had dreaded, a battle his family was doomed to lose, against the gold lust. He saw again his companions gathered around him, and only now noticed their faces falling as he spoke of defending the mountain. He saw now his outright betrayal of Bilbo Baggins. He saw the underhanded, slimy way he had treated the elves, and even the men who had slain his enemy. If in his last moments those mistakes had pained him, they now riddled him, stabbed at him, writhed inside him and burned his heart.

He stepped back. Halmulev reached out for him, but he turned away and dismounted the dais. "Thorin, wait," she told him. He did not listen. He saw a passage to his right and started toward it. "No, Thorin," he heard behind him, "Not that way." He heard her start to follow and picked up the pace.

Ahead, he could hear something. Voices. He slowed, did not want to meet anyone, but heard again his pursuer and marched on. The voices were male; he was encouraged. They were shouting; encouraged again. And then he heard his name. He stopped just before entering another cavern and pushed himself up against the rock wall to listen for another moment before plunging in. He peered carefully into the cavern, hoping for someone he recognized, and saw no one. The cavern, at least from his vantage point, was empty. He heard his name again, this time from behind as his follower bore down on him. Gritting his teeth, he stepped into the cavern, into full view, and into the shouting voices.

Instantly it became a cacophony. The shouts roared around the barren cavern, bouncing back and forth on every wall. He looked up, but could see nothing, not even the stone ceiling. The cavern followed the mountain up, and up, and if there was a roof, it was far beyond his sight. There were so many voices it took him a good long second to understand anything, but slowly the voices he recognized made themselves prominent. He heard his own company of dwarves yelling instructions and warnings. He heard the voice of the Elf King ordering his troops. He heard Dain with his thunderous battle cry. And with these familiar voices he began to piece together the other sounds, the screeches of metal on metal, the howling and snarling, the crunch of broken shields and bones.

He jumped at the hand on his shoulder and glanced back to see Halmulev. She spoke into his ear to be heard above the noise. "In this room we hear the echoes of Middle Earth. The happenings of the Lonely Mountain fall down to us."

"This is the battle," he said. "This my last battle!" Suddenly he heard himself among the echoes. He heard himself shout courage to his friends. He heard the singing of Orcrist through the air. He heard himself choke, splutter and fall. He heard a wretched laughter and two screams flinging themselves from the voices of Fili and Kili.

"My nephews," he said aloud at the sound. He had not seen them rush to his side. He remembered seeing them after the battle, lying on cots to either side of him, pale and unmoving. Many had assured him they would recover, but now, hearing the wounds inflicted, he was no longer sure. He whispered each of their names and his mouth turned to ash.

Halmulev touched his shoulder again and took his hand. He looked at her and wanted to protest, but the grief in her eyes silenced him. She led him out of the vaulted room and down smaller corridors, finally arriving at a natural basin. She motioned for him to wash and suddenly, he did feel grimy. He bent over and splashed his face. Meanwhile, she leaned on the basin and explained, "The echoes take a long time to reach us. More than a season has passed on Middle Earth since that day. I was not expecting you. I was surprised when the mountain began to pull you under."

"No. All that happened just a few days ago at most."

She sighed. "It's a long journey down through the mountain. Your perception of time here will be different. We don't have the markers or the names for its passing that they do in Middle Earth. Suns, moons, seasons, days, nights, months. It took me a long time to learn all the words. Here time passes largely unnoticed. Some things happen quickly, some take longer, but the mountain does not much concern itself with the when of it." Thorin frowned and she saw him trying to wrap his mind around the concept. It would take him a while. "When I felt the mountain start to pull you in, I went to the echoes and tried to listen for your death, to understand better why it came so quickly. I had only just heard you crush poor Bilbo when your footsteps interrupted and I had to go meet you."

"Well you'll hear it soon enough," he informed her. "I died of those very wounds the next day, or maybe the day after that; I do not recall. I thought I was going to the Halls of my fathers."

"I am sorry you are here."

"Did you not bring me here?"

She shook her head. "No. I am the heart of the Lonely Mountain, not the mountain itself. One does not always heed one's heart."

There followed a moment of silence. "My nephews, my heirs. They were cut down." He shook the water from his hands. "I have to know they lived." He started back toward the echoes, following dwarvish instincts backward along their route until he found the vaulted room. He went to the center and paused to listen hard in the chaos for the familiar voices. When he found them, he sat down to listen. Halmulev arrived, coming slowly, and sat down beside him.

Thorin stared at his hands, and the drops of water running down his forearm to wet his rolled sleeve. "How am I here?" He asked, almost to himself. Then he turned to face his host. "I left my body in Middle Earth, did I not?"

"You did," she agreed.

"Then what is this body?" he asked. "Shouldn't I be a soul? Free to wander or rest? Why have I died and been denied death?"

"I am not of Middle Earth," Halmulev reminded him, "But from those of your world I have known here, it seems to me it's like the tooth of a mortal infant. That tooth serves a temporary purpose, but only until it falls in exchange for the more permanent version." Thorin thought of his reflection in the dark water. He was himself. He appeared as he had in life, but renewed. Younger, perhaps, or simply reinvigorated. He looked more like he had in the days he sat at his grandfather's side.

"Is this the dwelling of my kin? Those that have died?"

"What?" Halmulev frowned. She thought she had explained this, maybe not.

"Is my grandfather here? My father? You said the mountain brings down those who have been Kings Under the Mountain."

"Those who have _claimed_ to be," she reminded him, "and no. They are not. Thror did not prove himself a worthy king and has moved on to Halls of the Dwarves. I never knew Thrain. He was never a self-proclaimed king in this mountain. All your predecessors have left the mountain."

Thorin's hopes fell and he looked away. "Then we are alone."

"No." The chill in her voice brought his eyes back to her. Tensing visibly, eyes just slightly wider, she gave herself away. "No. We are not alone."


	3. Fight or Flight

_**Author's Note:**_Thank you for reading. Obviously this world is not my own invention. Reviews are most welcome and appreciated.

**Fight or Flight**

Thorin narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean we're not alone?"

"There are others who live here in the mountain, many others." Halmulev looked up toward the unseen roof of the vaulted cavern. "They are creatures of Lower Earth. I doubt you will recognize them when you see them. But they would be subjects of a king; to the king they will owe their allegiance or the mountain will expel them. Which, in fact, makes them your greatest enemy here—other than yourself of course."

"Why my enemies? If I am to be their king?"

The stare she turned on him clearly thought him presumptuous at best. "Because they do not want a king. They run amok here, and have grown violent and arrogant. They will know you are here, and they will be preparing. Be warned, it took them no time at all to overcome the last proposed king."

Thorin grimaced, "What did they do to my grandfather?"

Halmulev shook her head, "Not Thror. The last candidate we had was Smaug." That silenced Thorin. They sat side by side for some time, listening to the echoes of battle die down as the last enemies were chased away to be hunted down. He heard people begin to search for Bilbo. He heard someone announce that he, Thorin Oakenshield, would not live long. He had been unconscious for all of this.

"Gandalf," someone called, "It's Kili!" Thorin tensed.

A moment later Gandalf replied, "What is it?" There was a pause and then Gandalf spoke again, "He's gone." Thorin choked. The voices went on.

"Sir," someone said quietly, "It's Fili…he…" The voice trailed off and Thorin brought a hand to his face. It was an agonizingly long second before Gandalf spoke again.

The wizard heaved a long sigh that reverberated around the cavern. "It is only right," he said, "that they should embark on this final journey together." There was the sound of wood creaking and a few grunts of strain. "No," Gandalf's voice said. "Don't take them yet. Leave them here where the king can see them. He will ask for them when he wakes, will not rest till he sees them."

"But sir. They're dead. We'll have to tell—"

"We will not tell the dying king that his line has ended! Let him believe he has a legacy, if for no other reason than to ease his passing. They will greet him soon enough at the gates."

Thorin's breathing was ragged. He bit down on his knuckle as if to stop himself screaming. Halmulev sat, mournfully silent, beside him. Tears slid down her cheeks.

"Dead," he wheezed. "The line ended. My nephews dead." He dropped his head down onto his knees and whispered their names over and over. Halmulev lay a hand lightly on his back and waited. Eventually he fell silent, and a while later he looked up at her, red in the face. "Where are they?" He asked.

Her eyes filled afresh, "I don't know. I don't know anything beyond the mountain."

"When my grandfather left, how did he go?"

"When you fail, the mountain will show you the way out and put you on your path. That's all I know."

"Can I not go now?" he pleaded.

"I wish I could show you the way," she sighed. "But you will have to show the mountain you are not its king." He looked at her, waiting for more. She took a deep breath, but then heard Thorin's dying voice in the echoes, calling out for Bilbo, and stood up. "It's better not to listen to this. You know what happened." Thorin agreed, and followed her back to the throne room. She sat down where he'd first seen her, and waited for him to follow suit before continuing her explanation. "You can allow the mountain dwellers to defeat you and then the mountain will send you out." His expression soured at the thought of such cowardice. So she went on, "Or you could injure me."

"What?" Thorin frowned. How ridiculous.

"The mountain takes pre-emptive action to protect me. If I am destroyed, the mountain dies. Everything in here will die as it withers. The water will dry up. The stone will crumble. The mountain will very slowly fall until it is no more than a hill, and will finally sink into the plains." She shuddered, "There is nothing the mountain fears worse than to be brought low." He still looked disgusted. "It wouldn't take much actually," she shrugged, "A heavy strike, or a choking, it all works. The mountain will send you out straight away."

Thorin shook his head dismissively. He hated to think of his predecessors making such an escape, but she'd clearly seen it before. And she looked so sadly resigned to this whole situation. "The mountain wants a king, the dwellers do not. Do you want a king?"

She smiled. "Remember? That throne is sacred to me. But if there is a king for this mountain. He's been a long time coming."

"And you know I am not him?"

"I don't _know_ it. But I cannot see any reason to believe you would be."

"Why? How will you recognize him when he comes?"

"I won't," she freely admitted. "I am sure there are many who _could_ be king. To earn his position the king would have to rule the mountain. That is, command the mountain's obedience."

Thorin nodded. "And what part of that do you occupy? Why did my grandfather think you were the key to that?"

"Well it's two sides of a coin," she explained. He vaguely wondered which of his forebears had told her about coins. "The king will have the mountain's willing obedience and the everlasting fealty of the mountains heart."

Thorin ached all over with the loss of his kin. He felt afresh the death of Thror and the emptiness of Thrain's absence as he mourned the new wounds of little Fili and Kili. But at the same time, and old warmth was spreading from his chest outward. He felt the challenge of it all, and it warmed him. He thirsted to see his loved ones. Would they accept him if he openly sought defeat in his own mountain? If he attacked a woman? But some of them had done just that…his own grandfather…

"How did Thror leave this place? I mean, did he try and win the mountain?"

"This is your own decision," she told him gently.

The Dwarf King drew a breath through his teeth and stood. "What are they? And when will they come?"

If she wanted to smile, she hid it well. "They will not come here. They fear this place." She led him out of the chamber and into another passage. "They will try to overwhelm you first, pile onto you with sheer numbers. You will not have much use for weapons, since the idea is that the mountain defends you, but a few things will be useful.

"They are a mix of several races. The tallest of them are the nymphs, much taller than you. The satyrs are about your size, and often the leaders of war parties. The imps are definitely smaller than you are, but in battle, they are the foot soldiers and your most dangerous opponent." Thorin felt the need to scoff. Every Middle Earth fiber of him told him those things were not real. They were faery tales, created out of the imaginations of batty old wizards. But she went on. "The nymphs are water creatures. They will try to drown you. The satyrs will try to break your bones. The imps try a different thing every time."

A puzzling, disturbing thought occurred to Thorin, "They'll kill me? I'll die again?" The thought turned his stomach.

"No. Permanent teeth, remember? Everything they do will be in an attempt to beat you into submission. Your bones will not break, you will not suffocate, but you will feel it."

"Torture."

"Yes." She ducked down a very cramped tunnel off to the left of their current passage. This tunnel was bereft of torches and Thorin's bulk filled the entire space. He did his best to move silently and listen for the steps of his guide as he scraped along the stone. Mercifully, the cranny soon opened up into a small room and Halmulev lit the torch. It was, Thorin supposed, a kind of armory…but not a very good one. "Choose a scepter," said his guide. The sloping walls of the little cavern were hidden behind staffs of every size and height leaning up against them. There were staffs of steel and iron, staffs of many kinds of wood, staffs bejeweled and glittering in the low light. Some were completely gold-plated, or decorated with other precious metals. A few were so foreign looking Thorin guessed they had to be unique to Lower Earth. Halmulev rested her back at the entrance to the tiny tunnel, but she needn't have done. Thorin had never been over-prone to long deliberations.

His hand closed around a thick wooden scepter just a little taller than himself. At the top it widened to accommodate a knot in the grain, which knot had been set with gold filigree. Halmulev stepped closer to get a better look at the wood itself, and then showed him a small smile, "Thorin Oakenstaff it is, then." He did not smile in reply, but lifted a little his chin. Then the staff seemed to remind her of something, "Oh, and they know about dragon sickness. Right," she snuffed out the torch and started back the way they'd come, asking over her shoulder as she edged between the walls, "Will you be wanting other livery? Or will what you've got suit?"

Thorin could feel every imperfection in the rough stone currently trapping him. His thin tunic protected him from nothing. He wore no leather aside from his boots, no furs, none of the heavy garments to which he had grown accustomed. Even the boots were too thin. Halmulev let out a deep breath as they passed into the wider corridor. "There'll be no armor, mind. I've had some ask me for it. But what need of it could you have?"

Out in the better light, Thorin looked down at himself and wished to Durin he had some leather or mail. But the itch was upon him now, and he could not bring himself to delay. "These clothes will be fine," he grunted.

Halmulev nodded and swallowed hard. She pointed him in the direction away from the Throne Room. "Go that way and they'll find you soon enough." She spoke quickly and firmly, but he heard a tremor in her voice and looked again at her. No tears now. No sadness; there was nothing but bitter, bitter disappointment on her face and looking out of her faithless eyes. Suddenly Thorin wondered in earnest how many had come. How many prospective kings had she welcomed, comforted, armed, and sent off? She, who had so genuinely mourned his own losses…how many had she suffered?

The dwarf king almost opened his mouth to ask, or to reassure her, or scold her, or to give it all up and not ask her to hope anymore, or something. But she did not give him the chance. "Farewell Thorin." And again she pointed forward and took a step back. At that moment, it settled upon him that she would not be coming. And despite the unnatural warmth of the corridor, he felt a chill; and he realized that he did not know, or trust, this mountain as he once thought. So before he could turn back, he started off.

"Remember Thorin," Halmulev said behind him, "They are the king's people, his subjects, and his future."

He did not turn back. He knew what she meant, but after all those years he knew only one way. Thorin Oakenshield was going to war.


	4. Battle

_**Author's**_** Note:** Thank you so much to those who have taken the time to read/favorite/follow/review this story. A special thanks to Camomila3, Kililover01, and Guest for your encouraging reviews. This is not a world of my own making, I'm just visiting here.

* * *

><p><span><strong>Battle<strong>

Struck by a sudden desire to be away from Halmulev, to be unseen by her hopeless stone-gray eyes, Thorin left the main corridor. He ducked down a low-hanging passage and marched on. No sooner was he away from his host than he began to wonder about her. Things he hadn't thought to ask while so consumed in his own woes. What was she? Heart of the Mountain in exactly what way? She was smaller than himself—he remembered how she had stretched and lifted her chin to rest it on his shoulder when she first embraced him. Her hair fell just short of the base of her shoulder blades with two little braids at her temples joined in the back like a kind of crown. It looked dark most of the time, in the low torch light, but he remembered in the Hall of Echoes, where the light felt brighter and more natural, it had been like the color of wet, coppery sand. She looked like she belonged to the mountain: pale, soundly curved and of medium build, and dressed in a gown of bluish-violety-slate gray.

He remembered again her eyes and grimaced. Why was she always crying? He didn't like a weepy woman. A Dwarf woman would not be so easily moved to tears over someone else's trouble, would not feel so keenly such pains. He preferred a hearty woman, and woman of solid strength, certainly not a blubbering weakling. Again, Thorin frowned. He remembered when he had stepped toward the throne and she had stopped him. She had not put out a hand or said a word, but simply stood. And he had stopped cold. He was in error to think of her as weak. Some strength she wielded, hidden though it was. She bore some ageless authority. So…what is the heart of a mountain?

If Thorin could have seen the host that awaited him, he would not have allowed his mind to wander.

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><p>"Where is the volunteer? Where is he?"<p>

"Here!"

"Off you go then. We will remember your sacrifice." A boldfaced lie. But it didn't matter. The volunteer scurried off into position. They could hear now the far-off footfalls of the would-be king.

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><p>Some while ago Thorin had reached the apparent end of the lighted corridors and so had seized one of the last wall torches for himself to light the rest of the way. He held it aloft now, thinking of small imps—whatever they could be—hiding in the shadows. He did not trust the echoes of his own steps, but heard them growing ever louder, as if to betray him. Up ahead he could see what looked like a T between two tunnels, with a solid wall facing him. It was a perfect place to stage an ambush and well he knew it. If they were there, they must have already heard him coming, so to slow down would only be to give himself away. He maintained a steady pace, but stilled his breath to listen. He was quick to hear the faintest of rustlings up ahead and even what could have been distant whispers. Either they underestimated their adversary, or this was more a trap than it first appeared. Or, Thorin hoped, they were just poorly disciplined. The echoes made it difficult to judge whether the enemy awaited him to the right or left…possibly both. He would have soldiers stationed on either side.<p>

Thorin would have liked to have his nephews with him now, but what he did next he felt he did in their honor, which was to raise his staff, grip his torch and charge to the end of the corridor, rounding the corner to his right on a whim.

He chose correctly, though little good it did him. The lighting of many torches greeted him. The front line of the army was composed entirely of very tall women. He had his scepter raised and brandished it like a broadsword, roaring a battle cry for good measure. The faces were impassive. They raised their hands. Thorin had time to notice that some of the women had raven hair and others flaxen before they extended their palms toward him.

From their sleeves shot jets of water. Boiling water. Thorin screamed and dropped his torch. They blasted him again with the fiery water. He could feel it searing him, scalding and sizzling on his skin. Instinct brought both hands in front of his face, one still holding the staff. He tried to close his eyes, but they would not remain shut. They opened as his hands shielded them from the third blast and saw that the water was indeed boiling on his skin, but the skin showed no sign. Not the slightest discoloration betrayed the agony of the attack. Somewhere in the back of Thorin's mind the irrational thought occurred: if it's not _hurting_ me….then it's not hurting me!

Ridiculous and false though it was, that reasoning propelled him forward and he lifted once again his scepter and pressed forward. His eyes, undamaged, continued to blink away the shower, going against all instincts to duck his head or turn away. He swung the staff into the stomach of the woman on his left, doubling her. Then he whirled the staff above his head and collided heavily with the shoulders of two more. Still the water punished every inch of him.

Suddenly came a sharp blow and a shooting pain as the hand still up to guard his face was yanked away and the arm smashed. Risking his balance, he kicked against this new attacker and only then saw the inexplicably misshapen form of a man-animal. A hoof took advantage of his mistake and plunged itself in to the center of his planted foot. He cried out, and crumpled.

In the second it took him to realize the foot would still support him, they had swarmed. He could no longer feel the water, if any was raining down from above, but every bone in his back screamed under the excruciating blows that fell on his spine. Sharp, unforgiving hooves and other weapons sought out the vertebrae with the single aim to crush them into powder. His ribs should have looked like cracking porcelain under the blows they too received.

But again, his body did not react as it ought. His back still moved at his command and turning to look up under his arm at the attackers did not cause any internal punctures from misplaced ribs. His limbs, like his eyes, were not accepting the defeat his nerves felt. And again the ludicrous, insane notion that impotent pain was not real asserted itself.

Thorin stood, throwing off the many creatures. Similar in size they might have been, but these slight, bony figures could not hope to match the brute force of the thick-set dwarf. Again, he brought a few to their knees with the oak staff. They began to back away. He raised his eyes to the women lining the walls, holding torches raised. He watched for more water or other unthinkable tricks. The men with legs of goats curled their lips at him and he brandished again the staff, whirling it over his head and bringing it down in a threatening arc. The enemy did not advance.

Changing his grip on the staff to that of a scepter, he raised his head and glared at the crowd before him in victory.

"I am Thorin Oakenshield," he boomed, "Son of Thrain, son of Thror, King Under the Mountain!" The audience hissed at him. He spoke on, "I came at the beckoning of the mountain to rule this realm and all who dwell within." The snarls of the…satyrs?...grew deeper and the women (nymphs) lowered their chins. "If there be any who would rather leave the mountain than accept me as your king, step forward now and go in peace. Henceforth, dissension and rebellion against the will of the mountain will not be tolerated." He softened a little his tone, "I vow to rule in peace and honor as King Under the Mountain."

"King?" Someone called from the back. Snarls turned to jeers as the satyrs parted the way for the speaker to come forward. "Here now, don't you mean _miser_ under the mountain?" At this, a nymph produced from the folds of her robe a small, flattened piece of gold—rather like a makeshift misshapen coin—and flicked it at Thorin. It found its mark on his forehead and fell at his feet. In the first show of emotion he had seen, all the nymphs smiled unpleasantly in unison. The speaker, a satyr with a wicked grin, scoffed, "Be gone miser. We want none of your sickness here." He spat at Thorin's feet, wetting the coin. The satyrs whooped and laughed and spat at him, following the speaker backward down the passage.

"Hold! HOLD!" Thorin roared as the nymphs followed and the light receded. He took a step after them, and felt something land on the back of his head. He looked up and saw in the fading light an ugly, wiry creature with glowing slitted yellow eyes and saliva still clinging to its grinning lips. It launched itself at him, landing on his back and wrapping thin arms around his neck. In an instant Thorin reached back and seized the creature's neck, his fingers wrapping all the way around it and hooking under its jaw. He threw both his shoulders and the creature forward and it flew from his hand, landing sprawled on its back. It lay still.

Thorin looked up from the creature to the satyrs and nymphs, who had paused in their retreat. They grinned wide smiles of victory at him and turned away. "Stop!" He ordered them. They did not. He began to follow and the torches were snuffed. He pulled up short for a moment, and then ran after them, his feet pounding in the echoes, shouting again for them to stop.

He did not find them again.


	5. Foible

_**Author's**_** _Note:_**Continued thanks to all of the readers. This chapter is a little longer and I'd love to know whether you all prefer the longer or the shorter posts. Review and let me know! ;)

**Foible**

Dwarvish instincts notwithstanding, it took Thorin a very long time to wend his way back to where the passages were lit with hanging torches. He had long since given up hope of tracking down and catching up to the war party. Instead, he found where he had taken his torch and lit it on another. This time he followed a different path, entering the smallest tunnels he could find. At one point, he was down on his knees, dragging the scepter behind.

His goal, when eventually he thought of one, was to find a dwelling place. The nymphs, satyrs, and ugly, wiry imps, did not make sense to him. If he found them, would he find a tribe of satyrs, a pocket of nymphs, and a hoard of imps? Or did they all live together as one body? The idea was foreign to him. If there was one thing the peoples of Middle Earth had in common, it was a certain intolerance for everyone outside their own race. Surely they would come to aid one another and be allies, but elves and men did not found settlements together, and so it was with wizards, hobbits, dwarves, and goblins alike. Everyone kept to their own. Was Lower Earth any different?

And then there would be strategy to devise. Thorin was very much heartened by the discovery that pain could be shoved aside, but he had questions about that, too. Was that physical condition common among all who dwelt in the mountain? Had they all died in other worlds and ended up here, or did death still lie ahead of them? He knew he could not beat them in open battle and thereby win their respect. He had no idea whether the war party he met would be considered large or small, but it had overwhelmed and outsmarted him. He could feel the spot where the gold had pinged his forehead. It was a vile, bitter slight. But he could not claim it was unfounded.

And he had no idea how to recover from dragon sickness.

His solution, then, would not be to cure himself of the malady, but to convince the masses it was forgivable. His plan was to make himself a god in their eyes. People who could not forgive a man his weakness could forgive a god his foible—that he had seen time and again. So, while he searched for a village in the tunnels, he was careful never to miss an opportunity to jam a sharp stone into the soft part of his foot or hand and he made a point of smashing his head into the rock wall every once in a while. He sought any opportunity to remind himself that he was "permanent." His goal in all of this was to build up and feed that irrational, entirely incorrect feeling he got that pain was not real unless it caused actual, physical damage.

* * *

><p>One very sore imp took quite a while to wake up. He knew, he absolutely knew he had a lump on the back of his head, but he didn't dare reach back and touch it. Such movement would likely make him dizzy. He just lay there, in the pitch black, wishing he could just go back to sleep. But he could not. And sooner than he would have liked, his kin came looking for him. Well, not really <em>him<em>, per say, rather his remains.

"Right. There 'e is. Pick 'im up lads and let's be on with it."

"D'you think 'e's gone yet? That dwarfy one?"

"Oh sure. E'll be out from under the mountain's shadow by now." Hands reached out and grabbed the feet of the prostrate imp and he felt the need to speak up.

"Brothers I have some bad news," he said, lifting only his head from the ground. The one holding his feet squealed and jumped back. "The plan didn' work."

"Muggins!" Shouted the leader of the party, the one holding a torch, "Wha' you doing there…alive?"

"Well, 'e didn' kill me," Muggins explained as he slowly sat up and regretted it. "Quite by accident I'm sure. 'E can' have had another aim than to snap me neck." Not one of the three faces looking down at him was happy. On the contrary, they were panicking. "Sorry," he winced. They took his hands, pulled him up fast enough to set his head rushing, and hauled him homeward.

* * *

><p>Thorin knew he was getting farther away from the throne room, but he could see flickering torchlight ahead. Finally he was approaching something. A camp or settlement. He refrained from loud noises like bashing his head into the rocks and took long, quick, quiet strides forward. So focused was he on the lights now separating into individual flames, he crossed the threshold into a wide cavern without even feeling the change in the air. Two steps in he paused and scanned the walls for other passages, and then the ceiling for yellow-eyed attackers. He turned back to see the entrance to the tunnel whence he came and saw wavering torches. Torches following him and torches ahead. Now that he had stopped, he could discern that the torches he'd been following were themselves approaching him. So it was as well with the torches behind.<p>

Scalding spray and hoof-blows rose to the surface of memory and Thorin swallowed thick bile and panic, sticking his hand into the flame of his own torch to regain some courage. He positioned himself with the two passages to the left and right of him, staring fixedly at the opposite wall. Feet apart, shoulders back, scepter at his side, he clenched his jaw and steeled himself.

When the light of the many torches fell on the form of the stone-still dwarf, they realized he was waiting for them and broke into a run. The attack was different this time. Dozens of imps stampeded in and swarmed Thorin. The first wave fell on his feet and ankles, clawing and biting. The next to come climbed up to his legs, then his middle, until he was completely buried in the creatures. Thorin felt every bite, every dig of the nails and had to clench and re-clench his teeth to stay upright. He repeated over and over to himself the mantra of impotent pain.

The satyrs came next, positively squealing with delight. Their little hooves were extraordinarily precise in their aim, striking anything exposed without ever harming the crawling imps. Thorin waited for the hot water. He felt a thin, gentle hand slide in and grip him just above his boot and knew it had to be a nymph. Another hand gripped his other leg and water poured into his boots.

The water was bone-chillingly cold. As soon as his boots were filled, the water froze inside them. It was an excruciating experience for his feet and they did not go numb as they would have in life. Thorin bit his lip and held firm, even when an imp sank its teeth into his nose.

Someone tried to wrestle his scepter away, but he held on with the grasp of a dead man. Something kicked it, more than likely a hoof, with a force that should have split the wood. It did not. The scepter followed its master's lead and stood impenetrable.

There were many dozens of soldiers and each and every fellow would have the opportunity to injure the solitary enemy. Thorin did not have an easy time of it. The ice was warping the leather under his feet and his balance was none too steady. Someone grabbed his head and jerked it around as if to break his neck. Thorin allowed them to try and when the hands were removed, faced front again.

Someone shouted orders and the onslaught ceased, though not immediately, as a few of the imps were loath to desist. The attackers took a step back. Thorin searched the ranks for a leader, but could not find any who stood apart. In the absence of a commanding officer, he spoke to them all.

"Are you the party I met before?" he asked them. They sneered, but did not answer. He saw no familiar faces. If however, there had been more than that one imp with the party, they had been extremely well hidden. He thought this must be a different group, but couldn't be absolutely sure. "As King Under the Mountain I have come to you in good faith, bearing no weapons, offering no resistance to your unprovoked attack. You see that I cannot be bested! You see that I am Lord of these halls!"

A nymph was coming forward. Maybe she was the leader. The others parted the way and she came to stand before him, looking down at him from inside her hood. Thorin was of mixed feelings about this, but it wouldn't do him much good to whack her with the staff after that last speech.

"If you stand a representative for your fellows, I will accept-" and then he choked. She'd pointed a finger at him and filled his mouth. The water was no extreme temperature this time, but he could hardly talk through it. The onlookers laughed. He struggled to swallow, took a deep breath, and tried again.

"I will not—" Again his mouth and throat were filled. Now they roared with laughter. Even the impassive nymph allowed herself a small smile, finger still at the ready. For all his stoic resistance and rejection of pain, there was simply no way for him to talk around a throat-full of water. It may not damage him, but it had effectively silenced him. He shut his mouth and glared. The nymph deigned to lean down, look him in the eye, and squirt his closed mouth to the applause of all present. A snickering satyr came forward. He lifted his hoof and brought it crashing down in the center of Thorin's frozen foot. The ice shattered inside the boot and renewed the crippling pain. Thorin thought he would bite through his lip. The nymph lowered her aim and the stream from her finger ran down his leg and into the boot, filling up the spaces left by the crushed ice and refreezing everything. A single groan escaped the tortured dwarf's closed mouth.

Satisfied, the nymph straightened and the satyr stepped back again. Everyone began to melt away, back down both passages.

"Stop!" Thorin rasped. He cleared his throat, "Stop your tantrums at once!" But before he could say more a particularly well aimed stream hit once again his open mouth.

A satyr who was looking back and saw ran cackling back. Chuckling he said, "Very good, sir! Thoroughly entertaining!" And he sprinkled gold dust over Thorin's beard before running back to the fading torchlight. Again, when Thorin moved as if he would follow them, the torches went out. Only then did he realize they'd put his out as well.

* * *

><p>"Make way! We've go' a problem for the chief!" Muggins was pushed forward as evidence of said problem.<p>

"What's this?" The chief looked up from his ale. This was the satyr who had spoken and spat at the dwarf in the ambush. He saw Muggins with nothing like relief. "What happened?"

"Don' know sir," answered one of Muggins' companions, "When we went to get 'im, 'e weren' dead!"

"So I see," the chief stood. "What do you have to say about this, volunteer?"

Muggins could think of nothing to say for a moment, and then the facts occurred to him, "Well wait though! I think I did my part! I waited till 'e was good and riled, fell on 'im, made 'im mad enough to kill me and I don' think it's my fault 'e didn'! Not like 'e didn' try! Look!" He turned and showed the chief his goose egg. The chief was not impressed. Everyone in the hall was silent. The nymphs and satyrs stared avidly at the chief; the rest of the imps shrank away from this failure.

"So," the chief's near whisper was heard around the room. He was furious. "You are not dead, and therefore Thorin the disease-ridden is still wandering loose in the mountain!"

"That he is!" Answered a smooth voice from the entrance. The nymph chief of another village entered with her satyr guards. "We just met him, dangerously near our village, Braymire. I thought your tribe was taking care of this. Getting rusty, are we?"

"The imp did not meet expectations, Millienne. There is no way I could have foreseen…"

"Didn't meet expectations? He only had to die! This is no reckless foot soldier this was the crux of our plan. A strategy you agreed to and swore to carry out!" She lowered her hood as she came forward. "It was you, I think, who said he would be different, this dwarf. You prattled on about how he did not have the protected life of a king and how he would be a true threat after being forced out of the mountain and only just winning it back to die in its shadow; you it was who warned us all that the first encounter would be vital, crucial even, and who committed your troops to the task!"

"Millienne, I know!" Chief Braymire stamped his hoof and opened his mouth to continue.

"Failure!" shouted the opposing chief. "The dwarf is amongst us now! Learning the tunnels! He withstood two full regiments of mine and I've no idea what would have happened if the idiot hadn't started talking."

"He tried that with us too. He wants to win us over I think, best us, and then call us to a remembrance or—"

"Yes, a weakness," Millienne interrupted, "But eventually he'll get over that and then where will we be? Tell me that, chief!" She spat the rank at him like it was a joke to her.

Braymire had been growing steadily paler since he'd first seen Muggins. Now he was turning green. Unable to answer Millienne's question or meet the eyes of any of the others in the room, he turned on Muggins. "Imp! For your incompetence, you are banished. Seek refuge from another tribe if you dare, but you will not show your face here again!" Muggins' face went slack. It was, obviously, utterly unfair. But Muggins had little choice. The hall was silent until he was gone. Then Braymire looked back at Millienne. "We'll call the chiefs to council."

* * *

><p>Thorin had waited there in the cave for a while so that the ice in his boots could loosen a little. But he'd lost patience and hobbled to the side where he could dash the ice to pieces and shake in out of his boots. He couldn't believe the pain that lingered in his feet, however normal they looked. He wanted nothing more than to simply sit down in the dark, but after all he'd been battered, mocked and scorned, he couldn't bear to give them that last victory. He walked on.<p>

The one thing he could not manage was to seek out his foes. Rather than follow them, he took the first opportunity to duck away from their trail into another low-hanging passage and took as many branching tunnels as he could after that.

He'd been walking long enough that his feet were very much recovered, but not so much that his boots were dry, when he saw a very faint light coming from an opening on his right.

Thorin had absolutely no desire to see whatever, or whoever was in there. He could either walk on or turn back. He would prefer to walk on, but if it were a short corridor opening directly into a cavern, the occupants would see him and come out. However, if there were only one or two of them, he might actually be able to overpower them and use them to his advantage. If the cave was unoccupied, there had to be a reason they kept it lighted…maybe that would help him. He sidled up to the wall just outside the light and listened carefully for voices. He heard none. Either the cavern was empty, there were few within, or it was another ambush. Thorin shut his eyes tight and gritted his teeth.

As if against his will, he turned down the passage. It opened almost immediately into a small room it by two torches and graced with a single occupant.

"Halmulev!"

"Hello again, Thorin." Her tone was actually welcoming and it all but knocked the wind out of him. She came to meet him and reached up toward his beard. He gathered her up into his arms. Whether she had intended to hug him or not she responded kindly and then stepped back, smiling. "I was just noticing…" she ran her fingers quickly through his beard and shook off the gold flakes. "So you've run into them."

"Twice," he told her wearily.

"But you haven't been sent away," she mused. He didn't know whether or not to be encouraged by her expression. "So what are you going to do now?" Thorin had absolutely no idea how to answer that question. He wasn't so sure about his god-plan now and he didn't know how Halmulev would react. There was no way he was risking her disapproval at that moment. She accepted his silent response. "All right," she went to a bag by the wall and brought it over to him. "Eat while you think." She handed him a chunk of roasted meat on the bone.

"I'm not hungry."

"I know you're not. But sit down, eat a bit and you'll feel stronger." He did as directed and was surprised how good it felt to chew and swallow. It warmed him all the way down. Halmulev sat down beside him and was kind enough not to speak. Thorin sat, regaining energy, searching for a plan and studying the woman beside him in an attempt to decide whether she would help him or not.

Cringing prematurely he dared, "The dragon sickness, can it be cured?"


	6. Hearts and Hoards

_**Author's Note: **_Many thanks to everyone who has, is, and will read/favorite/follow/review this story. Reviews are always helpful and very, very welcome. This is a talking chapter. It's all about answering a few questions to come up with a few more and our characters revealing themselves to one another (intentionally or not). All of this is built and based in Tolkien's creation, not my own. Please let me know what you think!

* * *

><p><span><strong>Hearts and Hoards<strong>

_Admittedly, he didn't know how, or even against who, but he swore. He swore revenge._

* * *

><p>Halmulev took a good, long look at Thorin before she answered. It wasn't really a question of whether or not dragon-sickness could be cured, but whether <em>he<em> could be cured. And, being honest, there was no way she could know at that moment. That being the case, she took a more roundabout approach and drew in a long breath. "The so-called 'Dragon Sickness'," she told him, "is nothing more or less than the vengeance of a lonely mountain." Thorin stopped eating and the eyes he turned on her were narrowed. She let the silence hang in the air a moment, allowing him time to breathe and prepare. But she couldn't pause too long, lest her anger boil to the surface inconveniently.

"This mountain," she lay one hand on the ground and one on the wall, splaying her fingers and pressing her palms into the stone, "is a home. It may be a landmark, a mine, a seat of power, a shadow, a property, a prize. But at its very core it is only and wholly a home. That is how it sees itself, you understand." Thorin was keeping up. She could see that. Good. He glanced at her hands, clinging to the mountain tenaciously, protectively. She did not move them, but she turned to face him more fully and folded her legs underneath her. "I only know one way to explain to Middle-Earth kings about dragon sickness." She heard her voice hum with intensity as she readied her tale. Thorin seemed to pick up on it and subconsciously leaned in, but she had a feeling he wouldn't like what she was about to say. "In life, you had a wife?"

"No."

Well that muddied things a bit. "Oh…well perhaps you'll understand anyway. Say there is a woman, long married and well loved. She grows to feel that she is loved more for her gifts and services to her family than for her inherent worth. She sees that any thanks or praise must be spurred by an extra proof of her value. But that's not what she wants, is it? What worth are compliments or gratitude when they are justly owed for services rendered? If that truly were her worth it would not be love, but trade. So what will she do? She withdraws the love and leaves it at a trade. She fulfills her duties as ever, and receives graciously her husband's thanks, but he wonders why he is left wanting? He does not know what she has taken, what is missing, what she is hiding. He grows troubled, defensive, possessive, even jealous; and of what, he knows not. It is the soul of his wife he misses. He has her service but not her self." Thorin had lowered his eyebrows some time ago and now looked thoroughly confused. But Halmulev relished the telling of her made-up story and now brought it home. "Think of the gifts and services rendered your family by this mountain! Think of the wealth and the reputation and the protection of your line. Think of the great kingdom this mountain has supported and for how long by Middle Earth reckoning? Rightly was there rejoicing in the greatness of the kingdom and celebration of the wealth. These were gifts of the mountain.

"But where, king, was the celebration of the mountain in its truest form—the home of your fathers? When kings like Thror passed their hours in the chambers of their hoards, the mountain saw its value reflected only in the price of its gems. What had been a love of this mountain-home became a trade. Thanks and praise in exchange for wealth and status. And the mountain, wounded, withdrew all that was not part of the trade." Halmulev felt her voice darken and her spirits followed suit.

"The kings felt the change. They felt that something was lacking and they sought it in fame and splendor and most of all the wealth of the mountain. They grew possessive and defensive and jealous. The emptiness of the mountain drove them mad. They call it dragon sickness, you see, because dragons are most vulnerable to the madness. They are greedy and jealous by nature and no home will give itself to such ignorance. Thus all who succumb betray in themselves the great weakness of the dragon race." Now it was her eyes that narrowed.

"And then I felt the mountain brighten. I don't know how long it was on Middle Earth, but even here it had been a good long while since Smaug had come and the Hall of Echoes fallen silent. You came, Thorin. You came and the mountain thought you had come to rescue and reclaim your home."

"I did," Thorin nodded his head, face shining.

"No you didn't."

"But—"

"You did not reclaim your home."

"My company came only to—"

"Do you understand what I am? Do you, Thorin?" One hand still on the wall, she leaned forward and hoped he could see the truth of her every word in her eyes. "I remind you. I am the heart of the mountain. I harbor and house its every moment and every feeling. I knew that you had come because I remembered and recognized the feelings of the mountain toward your family. Against my better judgment and against my will, upon your arrival I was filled with the mountain's hope. I had not seen you, the echoes of your arrival had not reached me, but I knew it was you. And after that hope came a soaring victory and I knew the dragon had left. Victory, Thorin. You will have known both victory and defeat all your life, I think. It has been so long since this lonely mountain has been truly victorious that I did not at first recognize the taste of it in my mouth.

"And then do you know what I felt?" She felt the steel in her voice and she knew Thorin heard it because he recoiled. He would not allow her to continue. The dwarf stood up and cut her off.

"I do not care to know what you felt, Halmulev. For if it was anything other than gratitude at the dragon's defeat it was in error. It is as you say. I saved this mountain; I brought you victory."

She stared up at him in askance, "You betrayed us." She said it as a reminder. This was, after all, information he should be familiar with. How did he think he got dragon sickness, anyway? "Do you think upon discovering your arrival I did not go to the echo chambers and wait to hear your voice drift down to be sure? I _heard_ your company, wandering around the slopes in search of the secret door. I heard you send Bilbo Baggins to meet the dragon. I heard you enter when word came that Smaug had died. I heard you bar the doors like a miser and I heard your company pass their days in the hoard. You called for the arkenstone while others bargained favorite prizes into their fourteenth shares. You did not even visit the throne of your grandfather, or the chambers of your youth. You were not happy to be home, you were happy to be wealthy! You forgot the mountain, and in so doing belittled and humiliated us. Is it any wonder the mountain forsook you in horror?"

"No. I did not betray you." It made Halmulev sick to hear those words from that mouth. She rose very slowly to her feet. Thorin continued a little less confidently. "You—you said yourself that you did not see. Echoes or not you can't truly know what happened. I…I forgot myself temporarily I admit…but my sole purpose was always to defend this mountain. There may be those with cause against me: dwarf, man or elf, but you have none."

"You were restored an ancient home and reduced it to your filthy hoard. You—betrayed—us," she repeated. "Listen to yourself. That's the madness talking, the wretched sickness."

"I will not listen to your lectures," Thorin dismissed her and took a step toward the door. Halmulev was standing between him and his escape, but there was room on either side to go by and she did not move to stop him. Thorin, however, did not pass her. His eyes darted around the cavern as if in need of some alternate escape route, then came to rest again on Halmulev. She took a long step forward and Thorin backed away.

"You know betrayal, Thorin Oakenshield. You know the tortured, crushing blow and the wrenching stab of it. And yet, you only know it in your own proportion: that of a dwarvish heart. Just imagine, if you can, the weight of a mountain's betrayal. Think of the mountain itself, every stone and pebble, falling in one stroke onto my back… And then every sword and ax in the army of Dain striking in unison." Again she took a step forward and this time lifted her chin so he could not mistake the truth in her eyes and see for himself the treachery reflected. "Thus suffered a heart at the hands of one victorious dwarf. Who of all the line of Durin more deserved the dragon sickness?"

Thorin was set quite off balance. He tried to back away again and met the wall. Rather than recover composure or advance on Halmulev he skirted around her and all but fled her presence.

Halmulev brought both trembling fists up to her face, clenching and relaxing every muscle in her body to still the tremors. It cost her dearly to relive that moment. Many times she had felt the gradual dawning and realization that a middle earth king was falling away. She had tasted the bitterness by degrees and felt poisoned. But at that moment, there had been no slow descent of blackness. It had been as sudden as she described: the mountain caving in on top of her, impaled on a thousand blades. At the moment, she truly thought she would be destroyed, torn apart. To relive it was unbearable torture.

She closed the distance between herself and the wall and pressed her palms into the stone, leaning into her hands. The stone parted and, leaving the bag and torches behind, she pressed herself through the tiny space until it connected to a wider existing corridor. She'd thought she could handle this without knowing. When he'd come too soon she hadn't thought much of leaving the Hall of Echoes. She'd assumed he would fail quickly against the dwellers. Now though, now it seemed she'd have to know.

Small feet lengthened their strides until Halmulev was running down through the mountain. She picked up speed in the downward angle of the winding tunnels. She remembered that the first time she'd mentioned dragon sickness his face clouded with grief, but now he was so contentious over it she doubted his sincerity. It may be time, she thought, to be rid of him.

Her destination was the lower echo chamber. At the very base of the mountain there was another place where the echoes of middle earth finally reverberated into permanent silence. In fact there were many echo chambers in the mountain, the largest being the one Thorin had discovered near the Throne Room. Only one, however, could possibly still hold the moments she sought. Halmulev had never perfected her understanding of time and she thought it very likely she'd missed her chance. She pelted toward that last narrow room, racing Thorin's voice.

The stone and the air grew warmer as she neared the molten core of the world until finally the stone was hot on her feet, hot enough that no living creature, no resident of the mountain, could venture anywhere near these depths. Halmulev was listening hard to the faint murmurings long before she entered and she didn't stop until she stood in the center of the room and let the echoes swirl around her, closing her eyes to concentrate.

She heard the wizard, Gandalf's voice. He was saying that Bilbo had arrived. Halmulev struggled briefly to orient herself. Thorin's voice clarified all. It was a dying voice, weaker even than when she'd heard it with Thorin in the other chamber. Here it was: the king's death.

The heart of the mountain focused with rapt attention on the words of the dwarf king. She took a deep breath and opened herself, allowing the voice to enter and fill her, willing the mountain to help her understand. With his dying breath, what would the sickly king say to the hobbit, the soul who valued home and hearth above all else?

What she heard stilled her soul and stung her eyes. "I wish to part in friendship from you, and I would take back my words and deeds at the Gate." She did not move until she heard him speak the works, "merrier world," when a hand came up and covered her mouth. In the space of a breath Halmulev understood Thorin Oakenshield…or at least, understood his heart.

In his heart, he would take back his words and deeds, but he hadn't known if he could. He'd humbled himself before Bilbo in sincere love and also in the hope that by confessing his sins they would be forgiven. There were many voices on the mountain after Thorin's fell silent, but all heard by Halmulev were the racking sobs of Bilbo Baggins.

He had, then, been forgiven of his friend. And then he had arrived in lower earth, expecting to be greeted in death by his fathers. Instead he arrived to learn that his penitence had not been enough. He'd been met at every move by remembrances of his failure: at the hands of the dwellers, the mountain itself, and Halmulev.

The heart of Thorin Oakenshield was despairing. Finally convinced that it could be neither cured nor forgiven, it was searching for a way to live on under the weight of disease. Attempting to scab itself over, it was fending off any new wound or accusation.

Halmulev knew she did not fully understand middle earth folk, but she understood hearts. She understood now that hoping against hope and afraid of the answer, his heart had prompted him to ask out loud whether or not there was a cure. Everything Halmulev had said would have driven such a heart to madness, hammering home the desperation. Its offering of humility at death had not been accepted.

But his heart was wrong. What Thorin's heart believed had been a failed attempt at repentance was no failure. It was a first step. Halmulev's eyes snapped open. In the moment of death, the process had begun. His heart was halted on the very road to redemption.

Again, she ran.


	7. Council

Council

_The first great question was not how to take revenge, but when. Every moment that passed felt like a moment wasted. But every time his feet and hands started to itch with the need of it, a delicious chill of cunning would run down his spine, whispering that he wait._

* * *

><p>Halmulev listened to her feet hit the stone as she raced up through the mountain. Try as she might, of all the memories she had of kings well or ill, she could not remember one who had tried to cure himself of dragon sickness before coming to her. Many kings hadn't even suffered the sickness. Those who had were never expecting death when it came, and were never prepared to meet it.<p>

In this moment, thoughts of Thorin Oakenshield or the King Under the Mountain felt, in fact, entirely irrelevant. Halmulev the heart was consumed only with another heart blinded to victory and falling backward into defeat.

* * *

><p>Five satyrs and three nymphs sat around the edge of a round room. They sat on a rough-hewn step encircling the room and if anyone was to speak he or she would step down into the middle and address them all. Only one speaker was allowed at a time, unless of course there was a fight, or if someone was expected to answer questions.<p>

Braymire, the sixth satyr, currently stood with his palms open and shoulders tense, defending himself from the center of the chamber. "The plan," he reasoned, "Was flawless. The dwarf was humiliated and goaded to fatal violence."

"Only he wasn't," a nymph pointed out. "He was goaded to common violence."

"If we are to find fault, find it with the imp! And the imp has been banished. Can we not—"

"Strictly speaking," interrupted a satyr, "There must have been a flaw in the plan for there to have resulted a flaw in the execution. Perhaps you chose the wrong location. If the ground had been littered with pebbles—as are some passages—the imp's head would have been more acutely damaged. Or perhaps you accepted the wrong volunteer. A female or elderly imp would not have been so resilient to the blow."

"Regardless," Braymire sighed, "Is not this council gathered to prevent a greater mishap? I move that if we are to further discuss this issue it be done in a separate, punitive council after the issue at hand has been permanently resolved."

"Agreed," Millienne stood up and stepped down into the middle, advancing on Braymire, "On the condition that you remain silent in these proceedings until such a council convenes."

Braymire shied away from her imposing figure and when he did not see any supporters among his peers, silently retook his seat. Millienne then addressed the council. "Twice now we have met this dwarf and twice have parted ways without a victor. He has failed to subdue us and we have failed to shake him from our backs. We are, therefore, at a draw." Hackles were raised at such an implication, but Millienne forged on. "We are at a momentary impasse. For all our numbers we cannot kill him, and for all his strength he cannot singlehandedly overwhelm us. Braymire's initial warning has proven true: this king has been changed by his vagabond life. He has been steeled and tempered for hardship and I doubt we can beat him down without help."

"Where stands the mountain's heart?" asked a young satyr chief.

"Not with us," answered Millienne. "She is cautious, as ever, and filled with the mountain's misguided hopes though she does not believe them. No help will come from her."

"Then from whom?" Rather than answer, Millienne motioned to another of the nymphs.

The nymph chief called Dericee took Millienne's place in the center of the room. "The halls of my tribe are riddled with echo chambers. We know better than any the events of Thorin Oakenshield's return to the mountain. Never in the known history of middle earth has dragon sickness taken hold so fast. It was as if the disease lay dormant in his blood and ignited at the first sight of the treasure hoard."

"Please come to the point," sighed a gray-haired satyr.

"The point is," Dericee resumed sharply, "who's to say it can't happen that way again?"

* * *

><p>Thorin wound up the very place he'd tried to convince himself he was avoiding. But finally there he was, sitting in the throne room. He sat in the middle of the hall, squaring off with the big chair-shaped rock. While he sat, he asked himself one very obvious question.<p>

Was that throne worth this?

And the answer was even more obvious: No. Thorin new absolutely and without question that the chair in front of him was not worth one second of this punishment. There was admittedly a little angry fire that licked the back of his teeth and hissed that the mountain _should_ be his, but he had a prickling feeling that Halmulev would call that voice the dragon sickness.

Just as absolutely as he knew that the throne that continued to captivate him was not worth the suffering, he knew that he would continue to suffer for it. Something small and unfamiliar and new dug its talons into his gut and gave him no choice.

Unnerved by this fierce new something, Thorin became restless. He tapped his booted heels as he sat, scratched his head, and breathed heavily through his teeth by turns. Absence of hunger pains did not deter him from cursing the lack of food to occupy his mouth. He briefly considered attempting to locate the chamber where he'd left the meat from Halmulev—but only very briefly. Eventually he pulled himself to his feet and ambled aimlessly to a wall, resting his forehead against it and running his fingers down the stone.

And then he ran his fingers down the stone again. Parts of it were wet with the rivulets that coursed down the entire chamber. Thorin's eyes were closed, so his fingers sought out a dry stretch. When he found one, he pressed his fingertips into the rock and pulled slowly down over the surface. Then he rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. Smooth, worn, powdery they were not. Thorin wondered whether he missed the stone he knew in life or the skin he had in life. Either way, his unaffected fingertips succeeded in inflicting on him what entire companies of soldiers had not: a headache.

* * *

><p>"And who will play the defector?" inquired Millienne of the council.<p>

"An imp would be most likely," someone reasoned.

"If you'll pardon my prejudice," Millienne retorted, "I would rather not involve the imps further as individual players with this one."

"Why you, yourself then, Millienne. If you're so clever."

"I have faced him personally. Suppose he should recognize me as a leader?"

"We could send Braymire—offering redemption or condemnation."

"Rather an imp than an idiot."

"A daughter then," suggested a quiet young nymph chief. "Send one of our daughters. Defenseless, empathetic, irresistible."

"We'll have to find him alone," stated the oldest satyr after everyone nodded in agreement at the proposal. "The heart may warn him otherwise."

"May I suggest that we select the child from my tribe?" submitted Millienne. When no one spoke against her, she turned and raised her hood, leading her peers to her village.

* * *

><p>Stillness was just about to drive Thorin mad. He sat now with his back against the throne, attempting to sleep without success. If he could shut it out, all this deafening confusion and quiet, just for a few hours, perhaps his wits would return. He heard footfalls in a corridor. Halmulev.<p>

He reached for the staff lying at his side and pulled himself to his feet with absolutely no stiffness or creaking joints. He moved away from the throne, not to give her the wrong impression, and dismounted the dais.

No one entered. He approached the corridor slowly, mistrustfully. A few paces back he thought he could make out a crouching figure in the torch light. Feeling bitter adrenaline and anxiety he struck the ground with his staff.

"Show yourself!" The figure jumped to its feet and ran the other way. "Halt!" His voice echoed after it. To Thorin's surprise, the figure obeyed. "Come back here," he ordered, and it did.

Emerging from the tunnel into the throne room came a little girl. She was without question a nymph child, supremely beautiful with rather short dark hair and close-set, wide blue eyes.

"Well, spy," Thorin tried not to be unnerved by the very small girl, "What have you to say for yourself?"

"I am not a spy," she replied. "I'm not supposed to be here."

"I don't believe you," he scoffed. "You've been sent here either to spy on me or to trick me, which is it?" The child's face fell, but she did not lower her eyes. The silence dragged on. Thorin was very tired of silence. "What have you to say for yourself?" he repeated. She blinked now, and her eyes fidgeted as if at a loss for words. Thorin growled impatiently. "Why are you here?"

This, it seemed, was the right question. "They were talking about a new king. A king who isn't soft but doesn't kill. I wanted to see."

"You did, did you?" Thorin did not believe her.

"Why didn't you kill that imp?" she asked.

"I tried," he told her honestly, hoping to scare some confession out of her.

"Oh," she did look a little downcast at that. "So you're not the king?"

Good sense told him to reply that he was not. But the little something with talons spoke for him, "That remains to be seen."

"How will you get to be king?" Thorin looked at her for a long moment, wishing an answer would present itself. When it did not, rather than drop his gaze, he squared his shoulders.

"What is your name, spy?"

"Riyelle. Not spy, just Riyelle. And you are Thorin Oakenshield. I've heard your voice in the echoes sometimes. You were a king before. Why don't you know how to be a king now?"

"Were you sent with a message? Or a task? A threat? Tell me now, Riyelle. I am not patient."

"I asked my mother if I could come look at you. She said 'no.' She said you were ugly and nasty and cruel and stupid. But I wanted to see the king. If you are not patient then kill me and you can leave this mountain. The mountain teaches us to be patient and I don't like you if you are not." She paused and glanced angrily from his face to his staff. When he did not move, her eyebrows lifted in a challenge, "Or I can help you be king." She beckoned him to follow and started back the way she'd come.

Thorin suddenly wished very much that Halmulev were there. He looked around for her. "Riyelle, stop. Go no farther."

Riyelle looked back over her shoulder. "I want to show you something. You can kill me or follow me. But if you stay here alone you'll go crazy, Impatient King."

Thorin searched his mind in vain for the advice Halmulev would give him. She'd been merciful before…could she not take pity and appear now? Had she abandoned him to his fate? She certainly thought he deserved no better. Riyelle was undoubtedly sent as bait. But she had also spoken true: he could not look one more hour on that throne, not with this visit clawing at his brain.

When she heard his boots and staff in the corridor, Riyelle turned and smiled happily at Thorin. She waited patiently for him to catch up.


End file.
